I'm Not Okay
by Pannalid
Summary: You’d think that an experience like we had...would create a bond between the classmates that would never break, but all it did was shatter us." It's time for Gordon to let it all out. Loosely based on My Chemical Romance's "I'm Not Okay." LOOSELY.


**Author's Note - **This was a real, personal, labour of love, so I hope you all enjoy it. It's only a one-shot, although I don't think there's any room for development anyway, so it's really redundant of me to state it in the first place.

Thank you so, so, so, so, so (etc.) much to Chinsky for beta-ing this: it's a lot better 'cause of you!

On with it!

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**I'm Not Okay**

There it goes again. I'm not even sure what it's called, I've never been able to experience it for long enough to name it, but the sound of it fluttering out the window has certainly grown familiar. I can't do anything but sit here and watch it leave, either. I mean, let's be honest - it's not like I'd know what to do if I ever caught it.

Yeah, the idea of success, opportunity, chance - it's "ever-fleeting," if you will. The idea that maybe I deserve a chance as well; it's never exactly been too fond of me, I've realized. I guess I've never pushed myself onto the right path, but hey, I know a lot of people that have done stupid things, and they still get recognition for whatever the hell they do.

In books and movies, you can always find those characters that have the potential, but never really get the props they deserve. They're usually the sidekick, or the obscure kid from Math class that decides to help out, but the fact that they did is completely covered up by the fact that the hero carried out the plan to perfection. The plan mapped out by the kid from Math class.

Yeah, so I'm a little bitter. Whatever. I think that after what I've been through I have a bit of a right to be. After being one of the major components of, let's face it, the best show the Battle of the Bands in New York has ever seen, I've got nothing but "Who are you?" and, "Oh! You're in the class with the kids in the band!" It's not a terrific feeling, having no one know who you are, while some of your old best friends are getting absolutely spoiled rotten by people who've known them for two seconds.

I've never seen Freddy get so much attention, and we all know how he is with having people's eyes on him. Katie's come out of her shell completely, and Zack's okay with the world now. Which is a huge difference from before, because he was pretty down on life for a ten-year-old. Lawrence is the guy that all the girls love just because he's such a dork. Tomika, Alicia and Marta, well… They're the chicks in the band, aren't they? Summer's as smug as ever: somehow she got away with being in the band without being _in_ the band.

Speak of the devilette. Social Science presentations are boring in the first place, but now it's Summer's turn. You'd think school would get more interesting as it progressed, but at the age of fifteen, it's completely failed me.

Here she goes, same as usual. She gets up from her desk, slipping sideways out of her chair. Standing up, she flattens out the back of her skirt - not that she needs to, it's already bloody perfect - and heads for the front of the room. She turns around, flipping her hair around like it's necessary, or something. This is going to be a treat, I can just tell. She makes a little clicking noise with her tongue on the roof of her mouth before smiling omnisciently to everyone in her audience - oh, _sorry_, the class. Class of _fifteen_. Fourteen not counting her, although I'm sure she's talking partly just to hear herself.

"The topic I was given to present was based on the power of the individual and their impact on the world's society," she says. "Although I was given a chance to oppose the idea that a sole person can make an impact, I have chosen to agree, because, simply, it's correct."

Far be it for Summer Hathaway to be wrong. Of course it's correct, when you use the right example, I'd believe. Looking around the room, I can see at least five kids who disagree with her, and that's not even looking at their faces. From my seat at the back of the room, all I can see is the back of dejected heads.

"You see," she continues, "an example of individual impact can be found right here on Long Island - in this very room, in fact!"

I zone out. I don't want to hear this, why should I even pretend? I can see that Frankie already has, as well as Leonard. Funny how they're probably thinking exactly what I am. I hear Dewey's name come out of Summer's mouth, and I decide that maybe listening wouldn't be so bad after all.

"Dewey Finn, although his intentions weren't genuine to start with, created a revolution of sorts by stepping into Horace Green Prep's fifth grade classroom five years ago. With his absolute passion not only for music, but also for his mission, coupled with the tools and necessities to carry out his vision, Dewey created an army of perfectly willing assailants. Guitar, keyboard, drum and bass players, back-up singers and a manager were all he needed to put across the message that anything is possible. This idea, of course, spread through New York like…"

Yeah, that's enough. You had me at hello, Summer. I can't believe her gall, saying that that was all Dewey needed. He sectioned us off just like he did them. And, if I'm not mistaken, Miss Hathaway was a groupie to begin with. She's just like Julie Cooper, trying to fit into the scene in Newport Beach when she's really from Riverside.

It's a good show, okay?

Summer's still drabbling on. Marco looks back at me from the front row and rolls his eyes. I roll mine back, risk getting caught by Trentmenn. That guy has eyes on the back of his head; he probably senses my sarcasm even though he's staring straight at Summer's boobs… I mean Summer.

She doesn't stop talking. I thought these presentations only had to be three minutes long? It feels as though she's been going on for at least an hour. Does she not have a life? Doesn't she have anything better to do than sit at home and make up some propaganda about the band and how they're their own claim to fame?

I believe fame is a relative term.

I hear the words "School of Rock" come from Summer's mouth again, and I decide to stop listening again. There's no reason for me to be paying attention - I've been hearing it all for the last five years. You'd think that an experience like we had, with Dewey and the whole band idea, would create a bond between the classmates that would never break, but all it did was shatter us.

We weren't all that close to begin with: Summer, Eleni and Michelle were the Summer-Marissa-and-Holly type bitches in the class, Freddy was the ever-popular Luke Ward, and Zack was Seth Cohen, minus the chirpy personality. It was typical of a private school… But unlike the OC, we didn't all get closer after huge events. If an overdose in Tijuana and sleeping with your ex-girlfriend's mom can create an unbreakable fusion, I'd think getting cheated into competing at a Battle of the Bands could work as well. But I guess not.

Roles _have_ switched, though. Enter Ryan Atwood, a.k.a. Zack Mooneyham. Freddy's still a Luke-type but it's Summer, Katie and Marta who share the bitchy-bond, now. Lawrence would do the second season's Seth proud.

I'm more of a first season-Seth. Well, really, a first episode-Seth. I'd put money on the fact that Summer doesn't even know my last name.

Ah, "Summer." How fitting.

Clapping - good, that means it's over. I bring my hands together in half-hearted applause as I watch Summer stand in front of the class, smiling. She laughs a little - as if she's surprised that people actually liked it. Half of them are kissing her ass, and the others are just glad it's done. Don't get too excited, Sum.

I begin to pack up the few books I need for homework while Trentmenn starts to assign it.

"I need the paragraph on the economic state of a European country of your choice for tomorrow - yes, I said tomorrow, Marco, don't give me that look, it was assigned last Thursday, the outline for your Biology projects should be done as well, and for added effort, I want your own opinion on Summer's brilliant presentation."

"What?" I ask out of pure surprise.

Trentmenn raises a horrendous eyebrow. "I said I want a piece, let's say a page-long paragraph, describing what you thought of Summer's Social Science presentation. And I'm not talking quality-wise, because there's no doubt it was amazing, Miss Hathaway. I'm saying I want your own opinion on the idea, with reference to Summer's presentation."

"'Kay," I reply flippantly. I try to cover up my word vomit and make it seem like I just didn't hear him. He can't _not_ believe me, because he was staring at Summer's chest for the last half of class. He wouldn't have seen me not paying attention.

The bell goes, and the kids scatter quickly. I grab my bag and stand up, un-tucking my shirt as I walk towards the door.

I see Marco's still in the room, and I hold the door open with my foot, deciding I'll wait for him.

"Hey," he says as he walks toward me after stuffing his stuff into his bag. I nod my head in response, and we walk in silence down the crowded hallway, expertly dodging the mass of children still there. The one bad thing about being older at Horace Green is that there's tiny children everywhere. It's like going to Disneyworld at age seventeen. Except Horribly Gross Prep is nowhere _near_ as sweet as Disneyworld.

"Some presentation, huh?" I say as we walk through the front doors of the school.

Marco lets out a quiet snort as he pulls his bag across his chest. "I wanted to shoot myself."

"Yeah."

I knew he'd feel the same. Just like I know if I talked to Frankie or Leonard they'd agree as well. The four of us, we have our own little grouping within the class… We're like the Comic Book Club of Harbor School: some people probably don't even know we exist.

Marco and I walk down the stairs in silence. Kicking the fallen leaves out of the way, I watch the cars rush by, speeding to pick up their bratty kids from school. "What are you going to say for the piece about Summer's presentation?" I ask.

Marco shrugs. I don't say anything. We stop walking and stand in anticipation for our rides. Such is my life, I guess.

"It's just that it's so untrue, it hurts," Marco rushes out. I don't know what to say. Marco's a man of very few words, and to hear him say something with such feeling and emotion kind of threw me off. I'm a guy, you know, I don't deal with the stuff very well.

"It's okay dude, she's a blonde without the peroxide, you know that," I say, even though we both know I feel the exact same as he does. It's in my nature, maybe, to throw things off, though.

"Whatever," Marco says. "Sorry."

That triggered something inside of me. Why should he be sorry? For something that's not even his fault - something he didn't even do! In fact, he has a total right to be pissed off and hurt - we all do. Everyone's life has changed because of the stupid band, and the people in our class, they just refuse to notice the ones that have been altered for the worse. And he feels sorry for feeling what's natural? For feeling what a bunch of others do, as well?

"Don't be a freak," I say. "It's their fault that you feel like smashing a wall, and you know that it's the same for the rest of us. So don't be sorry."

Marco shrugs. I guess it's a habit of his. "Whatever. It's just gay. I mean, I don't know."

"Yeah, you do!" I say as I nod my head vigorously. Vigorously? I can't believe I just used that word. "Listen," I continue, "it's not our fault they all forgot about us. Their heads inflated to the size of… the size of something big after it all. And here we are, five years later, after countless times analyzing the stupid situation, and they're still rubbing it in our faces! Summer's a bitch, Marco, she's rubbing it in our faces, okay? It's not 'whatever.' She should be with us, she should be pissy and angsty too - she wasn't even in the band. But instead, she kissed ass and did whatever the hell she could to get with them, and now she's an attention whore." I stop to take a breath.

Marco looks shocked. Yeah, I'm shocked too. I can't believe all that came out of _my _mouth. I'm not one for blurbs or encouraging lectures. I chuckle at Marco's expression.

"C'mon, it's true, don't look so surprised that I said it," I say.

Marco winces as though I just added insult to injury, or something. I don't get it.

"Dude," Marco mumbles as he closes his eyes, "she's right behind you."

I tense up immediately. I feel my shoulders rise almost to the level of my chin as my body goes rigid. Okay, so I meant what I said, but I didn't want them to _know_ that. You never actually show how you truly feel to the people you hate, after all. Well, not at Horace Green anyway.

"Did she hear?" I ask.

Marco's eyes are still closed as he nods faintly.

"Oh fuck. Is she mad."

"Looks like it."

"Fuck."

A car drives right up to us. It's Marco's uncle. Of all the rotten luck - if it had been Mr. Hosey I would have asked for a ride home, just to avoid anything that might happen to me by myself, at this point. But I've only met his uncle once or twice, and I'm kind of out of the way.

"Bye," he says quickly as he practically jumps into the car.

"So," says a voice from _right behind _me. Had she really been _that_ close the whole time?

"Summer," I say in what I hope to be a casual, yet confident tone, "what's going on?"

"Screw off, Gordon. What the hell?"

I wince. "What?"

"Don't 'what' me! I heard what you said to Marco! What's your problem? Why do you have to make stories up, huh? If you have such a huge problem with me, why didn't you say something? To _me_, dumbass," she finishes as she sees me opening my mouth.

Okay, sometimes, the idea of being nice to a person you hate has just _got_ to be thrown out the window. Maybe, say, when said person is being a royal bitch to your face, all while exhibiting traits that you complain about constantly.

I take a deep breath to calm myself. Usually, if I'm about to do anything too rash, I can calm myself down before I do it with a few yoga-esque breaths.

Not this time. "What you don't seem to get, Summer, is that telling you how I feel would require me to be allowed to talk to you. If I were to come up to you in class, could you honestly say you'd be willing to have a serious conversation with me? And what right do you have to call me a dumbass? If I were to call you a bitch, what would happen to me?"

Summer snorts. "You already did, Gordon. You called me a bitch and an attention whore. Where do you get off saying that?"

I close my eyes in exasperation. Five years of pent-up emotion is trying to force its way out of my mouth. But I won't do it. It'll give her satisfaction to know that her attempt at being cool has actually been noticed. I won't do it.

"Admit it, Gordon."

I look up. I didn't even realize I had been looking down to start with. "Admit what?"

I watch a smirk cross her lips. "You like me."

And it clicks. This is the precise moment my whole life has been leading up to. I see the world clearly now. Everyone is trying to get up in life - no one can be happy with where they are. Even if you were looking to be in the tenth grade your whole life, once you're there, you hate it. You want to be out of school. Nothing's ever good enough, and once you convince yourself of that, than your life changes.

Summer's made that assumption already. Her attitude has gone way past attempting - she just _is_. And as I look at her now, with that smug smile on her face, thinking she has me figured out because she has me labelled as someone that's like her, I realize that she deserves whatever I can give. Whatever I can give to her, and the rest of them, for forgetting me, forgetting Marco, forgetting Frankie, Leonard and Billy. Billy, who left - couldn't stand the taunting.

Yeah, _taunting_. After six years together, it took three weeks for everyone to change, and all of a sudden Billy wasn't good enough to even be their classmate any longer. Now he goes to public school.

Summer raises an eyebrow. And I can't keep it in anymore.

"You'd think after five years, I'd be able to get over everything, right? But you know what, Summer Hathaway? That's not how it works. I can't just forget everything. I can't forget you and me used to have that special thing, because we'd always be the ones the other kids asked for help with homework. You and me, we'd compare answers to make sure we were right, because we both wanted to be so badly. Do you remember that?"

The smirk was gone, but the haughty attitude wasn't.

I continue. "Three weeks, Summer. Three weeks was all it took for all of that to change. And don't get me wrong, it's not only you. It's _all _of you. It's you, Freddy, Zack, Katie, Marta, Tomika, Alicia, even Lawrence. It's all of you guys - I've never felt so useless in my life, do you realize that? For once, Dewey made me feel like I was worth more than answers to the Math homework, and once he left, you all took that away. And it was the same for the rest of the guys too. We all felt the same. Don't you ever notice how your circle of friends has been cut in half? Don't you ever realize you don't talk to us anymore?"

Summer's mouth twists in confusion. I fist my hands in my hair, and I know… There's no way I can stop now.

"You'd think in five years, this conversation would have come up, but it hasn't. Because you guys have forgotten, and we're too scared to say anything. We're _scared_. You guys can say shit in class, but if any of us say it, we're in trouble. Or we're laughed at. Or it's just not as cool as when you say it. It's different now, Summer. And I know you know it's different, but you just don't realize how much so. You don't realize that the change in your life has affected all of us. And you don't know because you don't care. You don't care what _we_ think of you, you care what the band thinks of you, what the fans and the critics think of you. But does that even matter anymore, Sum? When did the critics stop caring? Nine months after Dewey? Maybe ten months, if you push it? Is there even a band anymore, Summer?"

I stop, because Summer looks away. I'm afraid she'll walk away, or do something else as equally arrogant, because I'm nowhere near done. But she doesn't. She looks back.

"You know what, Summer? I hate you for it. I hate you, and I hate the rest of the band. And it might stem from the fact that I bloody well helped you guys look as cool as you did at the Battle of the Bands, but at this point, it's so much more than that. _You don't even know who I am anymore_, Summer. And I feel like crap because of it. You don't care, and I hate it. What's my last name, Summer?"

She opens and closes her mouth like a choking fish. Her hands fidget around with the strap of her school bag and she bites her lip in what must be thought.

"Does it matter, Gordon? You've made your point, okay? You've made me feel like crap, thanks a lot, okay?"

But she wasn't going to get away that easily.

"Summer, you're a bitch. A _bitch_. And the thing is, I think you know it. I think you know what a cow you can be. I watched you today - I watched you swish your hair seventeen times in between Eleni's and Tomika's presentations, and I watched you wink at Freddy as you bent over to pick up your pencil. I watched you laugh as you talked with that guy Brett in grade twelve, which I know, by the way, wasn't your real laugh. You're fake, Summer. You're fake, and you're getting away with it.

"I know everything about you. I know that your middle name is Alice and that you went out with Thomas from the eleventh grade for six-and-a-half months last year. But do you know anything about me? You don't even know my last name, yet I know everything about you. There's something wrong with that… I even remember how you wrote that poem in the fourth grade, remember?"

"Christ, Gordon, what poem?"

"'I Love Butterflies'."

She looks at me as though I have two heads. Her attitude is coming back. She crosses her arms and a trace of a smirk ghosts her lips. She raises a single eyebrow and looks at me questioningly. "So you _do_ like me, then? You remember a poem I wrote in the _fourth grade_?"

I stop. I'm sure my mouth is hanging wide open, but I can't help it. I'm shocked; how can such a smart, _brilliant_ girl go from so perceptive to so… blonde? To such a bimbo that it seems as though she doesn't think before talking? From the way things are going, it looks like she's gotten some sort of brain transplant. But that couldn't be, because I'd know about it.

But as I keep looking at her jarringly, as I keep looking at her stupid grin and triumphant gleam in her eyes, I realize that she's not kidding. She's not stupid, and she hasn't gotten a brain transplant - she's just changed. That Summer I knew, one that could roll a witty remark off of her tongue and have it sting deep, that Summer's not there anymore. The one that cared about things that the other girls didn't, she's gone. She's just like the other girls now.

And I realize that she's taking what I'm saying at face value because she simply can't dig any deeper than that. She's been altered so much that she can't see past anything. Maybe it's all the lights and flashes from cameras she was exposed to, but Summer Hathaway is blind. And I've just wasted 110 percent of my energy venting and ranting and spilling all of my gut feelings to a girl that can only assume that I like her.

I start to laugh. It starts as a chuckle, but the more I think of the irony behind it, the smartest, best girl ever becoming the one that I'd end up despising, it turns hysterical. And soon, I have tears running down my cheeks, and I have to take off my glasses because they're fogging up and becoming all tear stained. By the time I can see again, Summer's expression has turned to concern.

I'll never be able to figure her out.

"Um," she begins slowly as my fading chuckles die down, "are you okay?"

As if on cue, my mom pulls up.

"Oh," I say as I step towards the car, "I'm okay. Trust me."

I get into the car, and right before I close the door, I see Summer walk up to Eleni and say, "Did you hear about the new diet Mischa Barton's on? Supposedly it's how she stays so skinny!"


End file.
